


Meditations at Dawn: McCoy | Spock

by kianspo



Series: Don't Stop Believing [4]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Bones did not sign up for this, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Jim vs logic: relationship, M/M, Marriage Proposal, POV Outsider, getting their act together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28882827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: Set within the DNSB verse. McCoy spends a lot of time trying to wrap his head around ancient Vulcan traditions, cursing, and asking himself why Jim and Spock can't do anything like normal people. Spock, for his part, is really stubborn. Fortunately for him, Jim is stubborn right back. They might have a bit of a problem where Starfleet is concerned, but it will probably all end well?
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Series: Don't Stop Believing [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/13631
Comments: 55
Kudos: 143





	1. MaD: McCoy

**Author's Note:**

> The whole MAD cycle was intended to be a series of conversations/monologues to shed light on events that remained outside the main DNSB storyline. This particular story, or 'the bonding fic' as it's labeled in my head, was mostly written within a few months of me finishing the main arc. I never got to clean it up and post then. It's also the only story (that I haven't already posted) that had survived the crash of my old computer... This fic contains a lot of 'technical information', so to speak, so it might be a bit boring. But for all that I have long worked out what makes Jim and Spock's bond so special in my verse, I never actually went to the trouble of laying it all out. So, I figured I owed Jim and Spock this much. 
> 
> With special thanks to [evil_triffid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_triffid/pseuds/evil_triffid) for rekindling my love for this pairing and this verse. ♥

**McCoy**

\--

“Tell me it’s not what I think.”

Geoffrey M’Benga gives him an askance look. “Well, it’s not a case of Andorian shingles, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh, ha-ha, you’re hilarious.” McCoy rolls his eyes. “I called you here because I needed a second opinion, not because I’m rooting for you in the smartass of the week competition.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” M’Benga throws his hands up. “A little touchy tonight, aren’t we?”

“I’ve been staring at those damn scans for two days,” McCoy broods. “I’m not in the mood.”

M’Benga looks at the projection table again where the computer is conveniently displaying two distinct sets of brainwave patterns in all their 3D glory. He walks around slowly, studying the display. The scans aren’t labeled, but one is consistent with that of a moderately young human male, and the other with that of a similarly aged Vulcan. At first glance. M’Benga takes a second glance, and a third. He looks up at McCoy.

“So what _do_ you think exactly?”

McCoy huffs. “I see no fluctuations in normal brain chemistry, no traces of physical tampering. And yet here”—he highlights a section of the scan with a wave of his fingers—“and here the normally dormant areas are activated, and the neurological changes are an exact match. An exact match,” he repeats, still unable to fully shake off the shock he’d gotten when he had first looked at the results. “For adult Vulcans, this amount of activity in the temporal lobe amounts to them being ready to form a new bond. It signifies that enough new neural patterns have been established within the appo-kam, the telepathy center, to facilitate the transition from superficial mental contact into a long-term connection, namely a permanent bond.”

M’Benga is listening with a slight smile and doesn’t interrupt.

“I know you know this.” McCoy nods. “But explain this to me. Why does the activity in the human brain here build up to match? The telepathy center of the human brain is dormant for 99.998% of the species, and the remaining 0.002% don’t display anything remotely close to this.” He gestures at the display in dismay. “In all the registered cases of cross-species bondings between Vulcans and humans, humans have always been the conquered race, so to speak. This”—he jabs his finger into the highlighted spot—“should not be physically possible.”

M’Benga frowns at the scan, thinking.

“Hm,” he says at last. “There’s no permanent link present at the moment, though, according to this. A predisposition for one, yes. But it’s not of the normal kind. I mean to say, this isn’t a starting point for a normal marital bond. Nor a familial bond, for that matter.”

“You don’t say.” McCoy rubs his face tiredly. “It’s freaky telepathic anomalies day all around, all right.”

“I think I have an idea, though,” M’Benga says, thoughtful, eyes flicking through the displays as he changes data layers. “Yes, maybe, maybe…”

“Maybe what?” McCoy asks, losing patience.

M’Benga looks up and asks in turn, “Who’s the human?”

McCoy frowns. “Patient X.”

M’Benga rolls his eyes. “Look, Leonard, it’s a little too late to pretend that this is an academic exercise, and with only one Vulcan onboard, you’d have to literally stand on your head and maybe throw in a few cartwheels to convince me these scans don’t belong to Commander Spock. So who’s the human patient? Is it you?”

“What?” McCoy gapes at him. “Are you insane?”

M’Benga grins. “Well, the way you two bicker you can’t blame people for jumping to conclusions.”

“Oh, good grief,” McCoy mutters, then looks up, stern. “I’ve been Spock’s personal physician since the beginning of the mission, and it pains me to say this but I’d rather it stayed that way. That being said. Do I have to transfer him to you for you to keep the confidentiality on this going?”

M’Benga’s mirth evaporates. “Of course not. But we might as well dispense with the anonymity between us since it’s all but gone up in smoke anyway.”

McCoy glares at him some more for good measure, then sighs, deflated. “It’s Jim. Those are Jim’s scans.”

M’Benga whistles. “Well, now it makes sense.”

“What makes sense? Speak up, man. This is like pulling teeth.”

“Well, Vulcan physiology has been explored through and through by some not entirely unknown names in the field.” He nods at McCoy gallantly. “So, when I went to Vulcan for my internship, I made the study of their telepathy my particular subject. Specifically, the bonds.”

“I know. I read your monograph. It’s part of the reason you’re on this ship. Do go on before I succumb to the urge to kill myself.”

“Well, there are bonds I didn’t talk about in my monograph,” M’Benga says. “Because they are too archaic and haven’t been witnessed on Vulcan in the last thousand years or so. I’ve read up on them, though, because—well, frankly, because the chronicles read like an adventure novel.”

“Too archaic? This just keeps getting better. Care to elaborate for your old country doctor?” 

M’Benga shrugs. “You know Vulcans were a caste-split society before Surak, with the warrior class more or less in control. This isn’t just old Vulcan, this is ancient history. Peace was rare and brief; war was the way of life, so to speak. Warriors had to spend years away from their families during the long campaigns. They had to deal with pon farr away from home. Though I think that the tradition of bonding was formed first, and its fortunate biological byproduct was discovered later. But it was quite normal in those times for two males to form the so-called warrior-bonds. It didn’t happen often, mind you, but enough for it to be recognized as a custom. The bonded pair would declare themselves shield-mates and couldn’t be separated from then on. It gave a start to a lot of really noble traditions, by the way, kind of like chivalry on Earth. For example, if one bondmate was taken prisoner, his captor had to take his mate also, release the one he had, or kill him.”

“Charming,” McCoy says. “Real gallant. How did they not die out then? I mean someone still had to be making new baby Vulcans.”

“Well, first of all, like I said, they were really rare. And besides, the shield-mate bond didn’t preclude a marital bond from being formed, they weren’t in competition. Most Vulcans were bonded by the age of seven, so when two males later entered into the warrior-bond, it was an addition not a substitution. Even here, you can see,”—M’Benga gestures at the scan—“the center where the marital bond would form remains untouched. They will coexist, not eliminate one another.”

“You mean—” McCoy pauses, mind boggling. “They still went to their wives every seven years?”

“If they could. The shield-mate bond would save them during pon farr if they couldn’t, but other than that yes, they were still married to their spouses and remained so for the rest of their lives, raising children. Well, the wives and the elders mostly raised them, but that’s beside the point.”

“But couldn’t their wives feel it through their bonds when their husbands were—well, busy with each other?”

M’Benga smiles. “You know, I have long suspected that Vulcan pre-Reform poetry had sunk into oblivion not because it was such a low genre, but because no one wanted to think overmuch about what its subject mostly was. There’s some _fascinating_ stuff in there. A lot of frankly amazing female poets, too.”

“Please don’t tell me.” McCoy cringes. He could just picture it… Actually, he would really prefer not to. They have strayed from the subject anyway. “And you think that this warrior-bond is happening here? Thousands of years after it went extinct even on Vulcan?”

M’Benga points to the highlighted sections of the scans. “I thought of it primarily because of your ‘anomaly.’ Vulcan bondmates are equal to each other when the bond is established. However, during the bonding process someone has to lead. If it’s a familial bond, the parent creates it, or the elder sibling. If it’s a marital one, one of the partners has to lead, the other to comply—in the initial process only, you understand. It’s like bringing a boat to the shore—someone has to throw the rope, and someone has to catch it. The only exception ever recorded to that rule is the warrior-bond. Both partners have to ‘throw the rope’ and both have to ‘catch’ it or it doesn’t take. That’s why they were so rare even back then. That made _t’hy’la_ partners precious, and it was a point of honor for an outfit to have a bonded pair among them.”

“I knew it,” McCoy mutters under his breath. “I knew I’d need a drink for this conversation.”

M’Benga smiles. “I might join you. I don’t think you understand, Leonard. If this is really what is happening here, it’s—extraordinary. It’d be the only existing case in living history. And involving a human partner, too.”

“But see, this is exactly what I don’t get. Two Vulcan males—fine, whatever. But Jim’s not a telepath, and he’s not even in that 0.002%. Trust me, I checked. How could he—well, ‘throw a rope’ anywhere?”

M’Benga shrugs. “I don’t know. Vulcans couldn’t exactly supply MRIs from that period, if you know what I mean. It all had to be derived from poetic descriptions and legends.”

“Legends,” McCoy repeats in disgust. “Spock is right, I’d be down to beads and rattles next. God help me. And how do the legends explain it?”

“Well, poetic descriptions aside, the two minds would have to be closely attuned to one another—a certain degree of familiarity, usually arrived at by frequent melding. But also, it was said that t’hy’la minds, while being distinctly different, were ‘of the same core’ to begin with.”

“Of the same core,” McCoy repeats sardonically. “Well, they are both genius-level _morons_ with no self-preservation instincts to speak of and daddy issues a mile long, who get off on getting into trouble under the guise of following orders because that’s the only time they aren’t clinically bored. Does that count?”

M’Benga glances at the scans, grinning. “Looks like it does.” He throws a curious look at McCoy. “You know them better, of course, but I have to say—if it wasn’t for this, I’d never have suspected them.”

McCoy grimaces. “Well, even Jim isn’t childish enough to hold hands on the bridge or make out in the turbolift—and I thank every god I know every day for that.”

“Then what are you worried about?” M’Benga frowns slightly, thinking back. “I do believe for the last few months the captain has been in here”—he spreads his arms, indicating Medbay—“considerably less.”

“Yeah, and Spock has been in here considerably more.” McCoy scowls. “If it’s supposed to be a balancing act, I don’t see the improvement.”

M’Benga shrugs. “They might not know this is happening. Commander Spock is unquestionably aware of the growing affinity between them, but, given the nature of this proto-link, I very much doubt he suspects the depth of it. A marital bond cannot form spontaneously, so he probably thinks he has the situation under control.”

“And if that doesn’t sound like grounds for an investigation of possible mind control issues for Starfleet Medical then I’d eat my goddamn tricorder,” McCoy snaps. “Why couldn’t they just have bonded or gotten married or whatever it is they call it on Vulcan _like normal people who value my sanity_?”

“You’re freaking out,” M’Benga observes, eyes narrowing in calculating curiosity. “Why are you freaking out? All you need to do is tell them, and— _ah_.” He smiles. “They haven’t told you they were, um, seeing each other.”

“I knew about it almost as soon as it started. Hell, _before_ it started, probably.” McCoy drags a hand over his face, the fight going out of him. “For that matter, I’m pretty sure it’s a fairly open secret among the senior staff, because we’re not blind, and Jim is subtle, but not that subtle. Not to those who know him anyway. If you’d been here this whole time, you’d have known, too. But they haven’t bothered to officially notify me. And they should have.”

M’Benga’s expression turns sympathetic. “Friendship often has to take a backseat when—”

“Dammit, man, you think I care about that?” McCoy rolls his eyes. “Watching Jim squirm as he tried to hide it was actually amusing, but he’s the damn captain. If he stumbled into any kind of a committed relationship, he should have notified me at once—it’s freaking regulations. Now I have this”—he gestures toward the scans—“on the record, which would be damn hard to explain to Command as it is, without exposing him for breaking the rules yet again. Starfleet doesn’t care—for the most part—who you sleep with, unless you happen to be of command rank and in a position of authority. Then it’s all kinds of messy.”

“But if they have not made it official—”

“Doesn’t work that way and you know it. This entire crew came together out of the biggest mess in Starfleet history, and, on top of that, we got sucked right into the shitstorm with Nogura. We already have a reputation of a ship whose crew does whatever the hell it wants. Something tells me Admiral Nechayev is a lot less tolerant of breaking the rules when she’s the one making them.”

M’Benga shrugs. “It doesn’t change anything. You can’t exactly un-see this; you have a duty to your patients first and foremost. You have to tell them.”

McCoy sighs. “I know. I want to read up on it first though. And I want you here for a repeat performance. I’m just not that good at reciting pre-Reform Vulcan poetry.”

“Not to mention you want a body shield in case one or both of them go berserk?”

McCoy smirks. “Well. They’ve nearly torn the goddamn ship apart, trying to figure out their command dynamic. Wait till they find out they’re actually soulmates.”

M’Benga blinks. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” McCoy sighs. “Get some sleep, man. We’re going to need it.”

\--

McCoy doesn’t really sleep that night. His quarters don’t have a viewport since the sight of stars passing by drove him crazy and he’d switched with Chapel early in the day. He craves the sight now and goes up to the Observation Deck. It’s the middle of the night, and the only people who are awake are on duty, so it’s deserted and quiet. He stares at the blurry lines of light that are stars smeared by the warp field, and, for the first time in his life, his thoughts are more disconcerting than the view.

Part of him isn’t really surprised. Kirk and Spock have been… well, _Kirk and Spock_ , whatever that means, right from that goddamn Kobayashi Maru hearing. Even that first insane mission to stop Nero that had very nearly led to the destruction of Earth was less about whether they could come up with any contemporary means to defeat future tech, and more about whether a specific human and a specific Vulcan could get over themselves long enough to work together. The moment they did, the impossible ceased to exist.

Even then, distracted with the immediate as they all were, McCoy knew that something extraordinary had happened. The miracle of a once-in-a-lifetime connection. As if some insanely complicated cosmic puzzle was suddenly completed when the Kirk-and-Spock team was born. They could all feel it, the entire crew, even if they didn’t know what it was that they felt. 

The entire crew, that is, except for the two idiots right in the heart of it.

He thinks about M’Benga’s words and frowns. It beats him how so many people can’t see what’s right in front of them. They look at Spock’s ears and Jim’s obnoxious smirk. Jim, open and shameless. Spock, too serious and reserved. Jim’s rebellious acts of defiance. Spock’s unyielding discipline. Jim’s brightness and Spock’s darkness. People look at all the differences and manage to completely miss that, underneath it all, the two of them are _exactly the same_. Cut from the same cloth, or whatever way that cliché goes. Big damn heroes. Big damn morons, as far as McCoy is concerned. Duty—in the broader sense of the word—first, everything else second. The good of the many, and all that.

Hell, no wonder Pike had hand-picked both of them. But even Pike didn’t really see it coming, did he? For all that the man is cunning like an old fox, he bought into the entire ‘opposites that complement each other’ schtick. God, has he _met_ Spock? For all that the answer to that question is insultingly obvious, McCoy doesn’t get it. They had been lovers, for Christ’s sake, for a number of _years_ , even. How Pike managed to completely miss the fact that Spock was every bit as crazy as Jim was McCoy will never know.

Doesn’t matter now, does it? They were assigned to the same ship. The rest is history.

He curses under his breath. Despite what Jim believes and what Spock periodically accuses him of, McCoy isn’t that fond of sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Talking to Jim about his sex life is bad enough. Talking to Spock… 

Hell. Vulcans may be annoying, and superior, and more secretive than is good for them, but honestly, when it comes to pon farr, McCoy gets it. Even as an outsider looking in, he gets it. He can’t even imagine what it’s like on the inside.

If wild sex marathons in the desert were all there was to it, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but it’s not, is it? During his training, one of his fellow doctors had put it in a terrifying, but succinct way: dementia on steroids. To watch from deep within as every part of you, every single piece that forms your personality, your very _self_ as you know it, disintegrates around you in a matter of hours… To see everything you worked for simply vanish, as if erased, to reach for basic control that has been yours for as long as you can remember, and find it gone—it must be terrifying. If that wasn’t bad enough, you watch yourself being taken over by your baser instincts, unable to stop it, to intervene in any way… To cap it all, violence isn’t a substitute for lust. It’s the other way around. Bloodlust comes first. The drive to mate is the only thing that can stave it off. And what must that be like for a race of devoted pacifists?

As cosmic jokes go, this one seems almost deliberately cruel. But in this specific case, it’s worse even than that, isn’t it? At least within a Vulcan pair, the terror and humiliation are shared. The intense vulnerability of the moment becomes a beautiful experience of truth and surrender. No wonder this is the moment when bonds are completed. This is indeed the Vulcan soul, stripped bare. Not the madness. The mutual recognition and acceptance of the entirety, including the darkness within.

But Jim isn’t Vulcan. He’s not a telepath. He won’t, in Vulcan terms, _burn_. If he and Spock go through pon farr together, he will witness, but never be witnessed. He will guard, but will never have to be guarded. Jim will still be in complete control, while Spock won’t be able to hide anything from him. What would that be like, to reveal everything, deepest darkness and all, in front of the one person whose respect and good opinion matter to him the most?

McCoy shudders. Sympathizing with Spock is not his first instinct, and he doesn’t mind admitting that, but he can’t even imagine ever agreeing to go through something like that. A singular act of personal bravery that would require beats ramming Nero’s monster ship every time.

And that’s why the fact that Jim never bothered to tell him drives him up the wall. He can’t ask his questions when he’s not supposed to know, even when they both know that he does. Does Jim know any of this? Did Spock bother to tell him? Does Jim _understand_? Because Pike obviously had, and look at him, running for the hills. For all that he still looks at Spock like the guy is a walking Renaissance painting come to life, and for all that he’s not a coward, McCoy would eat his hat, if he had one, that this was a factor. Maybe it’s _because_ he still looks at Spock like that, he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing him less than perfect.

Dear God. He’s actually feeling _protective_ of Spock of all people. What has his life come down to?

He drags a hand over his face and, with a sigh, begins a tired trek back to his quarters. He doesn’t have a choice, does he? M’Benga is right. McCoy has a duty to his patients—yes, even the idiots who don’t tell him things he needs to know, and that duty supersedes his duty to Starfleet. Definitely supersedes any personal embarrassment. He has to talk to them, awkwardness be damned. Jim is a goddamn captain. And Spock is a big boy, and anyway, he’s been through worse.

But McCoy _wants_ this for them, is the thing. He’d never admit it under torture, but Jim and Spock together are a damn sight to behold. As a command team, as any kind of team. Hell, the waiting list for the _Enterprise_ is a mile long, for all that Command doesn’t particularly favor them and saddles them with the toughest missions. Hell, _he’d_ want to serve on this ship, if he wasn’t serving here already.

He had never seen Jim so grounded, so _himself_ , finally, as he was this past year. And he had never seen Spock more settled in his skin and more—relaxed, for lack of a better word, and unapologetic about it. It suits him. McCoy cares about Jim, always has. And, God help him, but he’s come to care about Spock, almost as much. He wants them to get it right.

There’s nothing for it, though. He sets up an appointment before he finally goes to bed, and prays that they will all come out unscathed on the other side.

\--

It’s late into the Beta shift the next day when all their schedules finally coincide.

“Hey, Bones, what’s up?” Jim asks, rolling into the dark Medbay like a stray bolt of lightning. “Oh, evening, Doctor M’Benga,” he adds, eyeing the other man curiously. 

“Captain.” M’Benga nods.

“So, what’s going on?” Jim asks, rubbing his hands together and looking from one to the other, his obvious curiosity at war with wariness.

“Let’s wait for Spock, shall we?” McCoy temporizes, glancing away. “I don’t feel like repeating myself, and it concerns him every bit as much as it does you.”

Jim stills. “That sounds pretty ominous and suspiciously not like ship’s business.” He narrows his eyes. “One of us better not be dying.”

“Nobody’s dying.” McCoy rolls his eyes. “Always a drama queen, aren’t you?”

“We all have our special talents.”

“Where’s Spock anyway? It’s not like him to be late.”

“No,” Jim agrees and frowns slightly. His gaze turns oddly introspective for a moment. “I don’t know where he is, actually. Maybe in Engineering.”

Experimentally, McCoy asks, “What would he be doing in Engineering at this hour of night?”

Jim shrugs. “How should I know? Scotty’s not there, maybe he’s checking up on something. Look, I’m sure he’ll be here any minute, and then you can ask him to your heart’s desire. We all know how much you like your ‘pulling teeth’ games with him.”

Jim appears to be completely unaware that in that one statement he managed to establish Spock’s location and occupation and throw in a protective missile to boot, disguised, as it were, in sardonic teasing. 

McCoy looks at M’Benga, who looks back, obviously having missed nothing.

“Okay, what’s with all the meaningful looks?” Jim asks, because he can be oblivious, but never unobservant. “I feel like I’m in a showcase or something, and I’m the one being showcased. Bones, what the hell is going on?”

McCoy sighs. “Maybe I should page Spock again…”

But at that moment, the Medbay doors swish open, and Spock walks in, heading straight for them. 

“Ah, Mr. Spock, so glad you could join us,” Jim tosses at him with an amused smile. “I’ve almost given up hope.”

“I apologize for my tardiness, Captain, gentlemen,” Spock replies, coming closer. “I was unexpectedly detained.”

“By?” Jim prompts, giving him a quick once-over. “You look sort of ruffled. What happened?”

To McCoy’s eyes, Spock looks the exact same way he always does—completely _un_ ruffled, with not a hair out of place. Only the line of his mouth is tighter than usual, but he wouldn’t have noticed that if he didn’t know Spock for as long as he did. M’Benga looks quietly mystified at that pronouncement.

Spock, however, doesn’t deny it. He gives the three of them an assessing look, clearly designed to determine whether the matter he’s been summoned here for is dire. Whatever he sees must reassure him.

“Ensign Rowen,” he says, resigned, “and Ensign Lo.”

Jim groans, and McCoy almost echoes him, forgetting for a moment why they are all there.

“What is it this time?” Jim asks. “Although, honestly, I almost don’t want to know.”

Spock gives him a look that is almost sympathetic. “I cannot spare you, unfortunately, since a disciplinary action will most certainly be required.”

“What have they done now?” McCoy asks, morbidly intrigued.

Spock clasps his hands behind his back. “You will be pleased to know, Captain, that the coolant leak on Deck 24 is now completely contained, and the engineering and maintenance crew are affecting repairs.”

“ _Coolant leak?_ ” Jim asks, alarmed. “What coolant leak?”

Spock gives him a quelling look. “Inconsequential at this time, I believe, Captain.” His gaze flickers meaningfully to their surroundings. “Suffice it to say, Mr. Scott will be most displeased. To spare the needless inconvenience to their roommates, I have confined ensigns Rowen and Lo to the brig until such time as Mr. Scott will return from the conference and can collect them.”

“God rest their souls,” McCoy mutters. “Now, since everyone is here?”

“Yeah, Bones, spill already. The suspense is killing me.”

“You survived worse.” McCoy rolls his eyes. “Let’s go to my office.”

He gestures everyone to a chair, but Jim is the only one who takes him up on it. M’Benga remains standing, just slightly to the side of the viewscreen, and Spock stays by the door, just barely inside, face blank. Right then. Showtime.

“There is a… situation I have discovered while completing the crew physicals,” McCoy opens broadly, sitting at his desk. “It concerns two senior officers who failed to disclose a sexual relationship between them to their kindly friendly CMO. A relationship that, as it turns out, has produced some unusual neurological changes in their brains.”

He doesn’t know what he’d expected, but it probably wasn’t this. Jim and Spock don’t flinch, don’t stiffen, don’t so much as look at each other. Spock continues to look at McCoy with polite curiosity. Jim’s eyes meet his, too, and there’s a flash of guilt there.

“Yeah, Bones, about that—”

“What neurological changes?” Spock asks calmly, his eyes flickering to M’Benga briefly.

“Oh, I’m _so_ glad you asked, Spock,” McCoy drawls sardonically, letting his irritation with both of them show. Jim winces. “Since I’m clearly no authority to either of you, I will let my esteemed learned colleague speak to that.” He gestures at M’Benga.

Both Jim and Spock turn toward him in perfect sync. McCoy suppresses a shudder.

He lets M’Benga take them through it, only half listening, and watching the two of them instead. Spock doesn’t really react in any way, except for turning somehow even more still, his face more expressionless than McCoy has ever seen. At some point, he walks over to the viewscreen, staring at the scans himself, as if seeking to verify M’Benga’s account.

Jim is a lot more open, and yet, despite how well McCoy knows him, it’s very clear that he’s not showing everything. Judging by what can be seen, he’s more excited than alarmed, which was entirely predictable. He is the only one asking questions, the same ones McCoy had asked. M’Benga seems a lot more intimidated to talk about pre-Reform Vulcan history in Spock’s presence, but Spock doesn’t jump in to correct him.

“So, what you’re saying is,” Jim says when M’Benga falls silent, “this shows that we are bond-compatible?”

Everyone turns to look at him at that, including Spock.

“What?” Jim looks defensive. “Why are you all looking so surprised? Yes, I know the term. I’ve been doing some research…”

“Research,” Spock says flatly.

“Well, not into this.” Jim waves at the viewscreen, more and more visibly excited. “I had no idea this was a possibility. But into marital bonds, sure. Remember you said there were regulations we needed to address and I said I had a somewhat radical solution that you might not like?”

“That,” Spock says. “ _That_ is your solution?”

“Yes, and what of it?” Jim lifts his chin up stubbornly, a clear challenge in his gaze, even as his cheeks are steadily becoming redder. “You obviously already had all the information, but you were in no hurry to share. Someone had to make sure we’re not skipping any steps, so that everything is above board, and no one can say later we didn’t do it right and use it as an excuse.”

For all that Jim is like a brother to him, McCoy suddenly wishes he wasn’t present for this. He’d always known this was going to be deeply personal, but hell, he’d forgotten to factor in the sheer _intensity_ of those two. The room feels charged all of a sudden.

“You _are_ skipping an important step,” Spock points out, at his most infuriating.

“I know.” Jim glares as he stands up. “And this isn’t at all how I thought it was going to go, but what about us has ever gone according to script, right? I was doing all that research so that I would do it properly when I asked you to marry me. Only now it looks like I don’t have to, because, from what the good doctor here is saying, we managed to cheat yet again.” Jim takes a deeper breath, visibly trying to steady himself. “Though, in case it wasn’t clear, I’m still asking.”

It _was_ clear, and McCoy has never wished more ardently to not be somewhere, as he wishes he wasn’t here now.

There’s a long moment filled with nothing but tense silence.

In the end, Spock shifts slightly and says, “Do you realize what position you have just put Doctor McCoy in?”

Jim blinks, then winces. It couldn’t be clearer that he’d completely forgotten everyone who wasn’t Spock in the room. Jim looks at McCoy and winces again.

“Shit, Bones, I’m sorry. I should have…”

“Proper steps, huh?” McCoy says awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Ah hell, forget it, kid. We both knew that I knew.”

“Still, you’re the CMO. I should have officially notified—”

“Jim. Stop. It’s all right. I get it. I wouldn’t have brought it up, never mind report it to Starfleet, if it wasn’t for this.” He gestures at the screen. “This goes on both your medical files. I didn’t mind keeping it quiet while you two were… figuring it out, but tampering with my logs would be outright perjury. Now, mind you, this isn’t much of anything yet. Chances are, no one at HQ is going to notice unless they know to look for it, but you never know.”

“What will they do if they see this and know what they’re looking at?” Jim asks. 

He deliberately doesn’t look at Spock, who still hasn’t answered the goddamn question, which sure as hell hasn’t escaped anyone in the room. McCoy wants to shake him.

“Depends on whether you’re more valuable to them together or apart.” McCoy shrugs. “The Fleet has been largely rebuilt, but there are a lot more ships available than there are captains. Depends on whose call it ultimately is. You know Nechayev. She’d love to split the two of you up, since I’m pretty sure she thinks Spock walks on water and is wasting his time with us. I’ve heard she’s very proud of Starfleet’s newest science vessel. Top of the line, and all that, so… That said, I don’t think she’d want to piss the two of you off too much, since she still owes you, so it’s a gamble. Now, Pike—”

Everyone except for M’Benga winces, and Spock looks away to boot.

“…and I won’t be speculating about that one,” McCoy concludes, eager to move on. “There’s the board, of course, and Komack is still your biggest fan, I’m pretty sure. He’d pull you apart _just_ to piss you off. You’re getting the picture.”

“Yeah.” Jim glowers, then turns to fix Spock with a look. “You have anything at all to add to this discussion? Feel free to jump in at any time.”

Spock looks up, lips pursed together in a more stubborn line than usual. “Do you truly expect me to comment on your solution to bond with me just so that you could keep your current command structure?”

Jim scowls. “You know damn well that’s not why I’m—”

“And _you_ should know perfectly well,” Spock uncharacteristically interrupts him, a sure sign that he’s talking to his partner, not his captain, “that this should be a private conversation.”

“Which means you’re going to say no. Maybe I wanted it to be public. Maybe I hoped peer pressure would get you to at least think about it.”

“Jim,” Spock sighs, actually sighs, and Jim falls silent instantly. Spock turns to look at the scans yet again, an expression of deep concern over his face. “I do not believe you realize the magnitude of this,” he says evenly. “With all due respect, I do not believe the good doctor does, either.”

M'Benga doesn’t argue with this, all too eager to concede the point. McCoy begins to suspect that what little information they could find, as incredible as it was, they’ve barely scratched the surface. To say that he’s feeling suddenly extremely uneasy would be an understatement.

“Then let’s talk,” Jim says, quiet and strangely calm. “Because I think I know what you’re going to say, but who knows. Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

The corners of Spock’s mouth actually twitch upward. “You always do.”

“Bones,” Jim says as Spock joins him at the door, “you can keep a lid on it for a little while longer, yes?”

“Not long enough for Spock to grow a heart, no,” McCoy grumbles.

Jim gives him a pale smile, while Spock simply walks out.

“I know you mean well,” Jim says, “but I wish you didn’t.”

“He’s a big boy, Jim. He doesn’t need your protection.”

Jim fixes him with a look. “Maybe not, but he has it anyway. His heart is just fine. And I think you know that.” He nods politely at M’Benga. “Doctor.”

McCoy lets out a long breath as the doors finally swish closed.

“I never,” he says, hands resting on the desk, “ _never_ want to have a conversation like that ever again.”

M’Benga clears his throat, rolling his stiff shoulders.

“Do you think the captain is right?” he asks. “The commander will say no?”

McCoy leans back in his chair, suddenly bone-tired.

“I’m sure he’ll try to,” he sighs. “For some stupid noble reason. Which he’d think is the real reason, but isn’t.”

“It isn’t?”

“Oh, honestly, all this voodoo aside,”—he gestures at the scans as if they have insulted him—“it’s not that complicated. His first bondmate rejected him. The next person he suggested it to did the same. How does that saying go about being burnt by milk and blowing on water? Jim’s got his work cut out for him, that’s for sure.”

M’Benga grins. “Careful, Leonard, you almost sound like you’re rooting for them.”

McCoy presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I know. I must be going senile.” He looks up. “Thanks for your help, Geoff. I really appreciate it.”

M’Benga nods, takes one last look at the scans, and leaves.

McCoy stares at the viewscreen a moment longer before finally waving it off.

“Good luck,” he mutters, and hopes the sound echoes all the way up to crew quarters.


	2. MaD: Spock

**Spock**

\--

The way from Medbay is silent, but Spock knows it won’t last. Jim is practically vibrating with energy, like a caged le’matya Spock had seen liberated from an Orion zoo once. If Jim had a tail, it would be swishing left and right like a whip now.

They enter Spock’s quarters, and Spock heads for the ‘living room’. Or he tries, in any case, and Jim blocks his way.

“Marry me.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. “Or else you will not allow me access to the replicator?”

Jim huffs, but steps out of the way.

“I don’t need a drink and you don’t want one.”

“Perhaps,” Spock concedes, working the panel. “I do believe, however, that they might facilitate the lengthy discussion we are about to have.”

“Yeah, about that—can we not?” Jim asks, voice raised slightly over the hum of the machine. “Not that I don’t love arguing with you, because God knows, I live for it, but I feel like this one should be easy. No, seriously, what is there to discuss? Won’t take a minute. Come on, I can even do both parts if you like, it’s that easy.”

Amused despite himself, Spock leans against the wall, taking a sip of his water, and gestures for Jim to proceed.

“Okay, right.” Jim paces the short stretch of the room, appropriating Spock’s living space for his own with the ease of familiarity. Spock relaxes a little at the sight. “So, this is me as me, and I’m saying, hey Spock, isn’t this wonderful news? Apparently, we are so incredibly compatible we gave the medical equipment a nervous breakdown. Not that we didn’t already know that, but still, so nice to have proof. And you know what the best part is? We don’t even have to go through some awkward and potentially humiliating spectacle of a public wedding or something. If my mother got wind of it…” He shudders. “So anyway, if I understood M’Benga correctly, one deep meld ought to do it. And can I just say, by the way, how cool this warrior bond sounds? It’s so—I don’t know, _us_. So there’s really not much to talk about here, is there? You don’t need to be in the lab tonight, so how about we just have sex and be done with it?”

Spock studies him. Needlessly flippant. Which means extremely anxious. Not that Spock couldn’t sense it before Jim spoke.

He lifts an eyebrow. “I must admit, it is a relief to know that you are taking both parts of this hypothetical conversation, because I confess, I cannot fathom what I could possibly say in response.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Oh, that’s easy. You’d say, Jim, I have no idea what you’re talking about as usual, but I agree with you, everything is awesome, let’s have sex.”

“I see.”

“You’d phrase it differently, of course, to remind the rest of us, mere mortals, just how inferior we are to you.”

“Of course.”

“Spock—” Jim sighs, hands flinging out in frustration. “Look, it’s been what, eleven months, give or take?”

“Eleven months, three days, and—”

“—fourteen hours, right, math, I can do it, too. You’ve pretty much seen everything I had in that time, including some stuff I really wish you didn’t, but that’s my point, right? If you haven’t run for the hills yet, not even after what I’ve put you through on Bealsa, you’re not going anywhere.” He looks at Spock. “Feel free to correct me at any time, by the way, if I got it wrong.”

“I feel very free in that respect, yes.”

“Dick,” Jim mutters, but it has the desired effect of making him smile a bit. “My point is, you’re not going anywhere, and I’m definitely not going anywhere, so can’t we just do the _logical_ thing and not put ourselves through a three-ringed circus for once to get there?”

“Your tendency to embrace logic only when it suits your needs is perhaps your least attractive trait.”

“Dammit, Spock. I’m serious.”

Spock straightens up. “I know. So am I.” He sets the glass aside. “Jim, you wish for this to be easy, and I sympathize, but it is not. Despite your predilection for using logic to manipulate an argument, you are emotionally driven right now. I must, therefore, provide the voice of reason for both of us.”

“Can’t be difficult when that’s all you’ll own up to,” Jim mutters, bitter.

Spock fixes him with a look. “Every instinct I possess is screaming at me right now to hold on to you and never let you go.”

Jim stills, their eyes locked. “Oh.”

“Yes. But it is not that simple. Any sort of bond between us will be to my benefit. Not yours.”

Jim’s eyes narrow. “What the hell are you talking about? Because, if this is about pon farr, we’ve been through this, and I’ll tell you now what I told you then. It’ll be my goddamn _privilege_ , and besides, in light of these recent revelations, I’m pretty sure I’ll burn every bit as much as you will, so we’ll be even.”

“I was not, in fact, speaking of pon farr, but I thank you for the reminder. It should not have slipped my mind.”

“Oh, damn.”

“Jim.” Spock almost sighs. “You are correct, perhaps, in that this situation should not be necessarily difficult to resolve. There is no reason for us not to continue exactly as we are—”

“That’s what I’ve been—”

“—sans melding.”

Jim flinches. “No.”

Spock stills. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no.” Jim glares. “I won’t have bits and pieces of you, if I can’t have all.”

Spock is unable to control his expression and turns away instead. It takes him a moment to gain sufficient control of his voice. 

“How different we are in this. I would go to great lengths to keep even a small part of you if that is all I can have.”

“But it’s not all you can have!” Jim explodes. “My God, this is so stupid. You can have me—all of me! You know this. What are you afraid of?”

As close as they’ve become, Spock cannot say this out loud. Yet he longs to explain, yearns for Jim to understand this. 

“The duration of an average marital contract on Earth varies from three to six years,” he says softly. “And while I am aware that there is no reality in which you would be considered average in any possible sense, I cannot conceive of taking away your freedom for the duration of your entire life.”

Jim stares at him a moment, deciphering, then purses his lips. “Translation: you think somewhere along the way I’ll change my mind.”

That was what Spock couldn’t say out loud.

“Yes.”

Jim nods again, his shoulders a tense, angry line. “And I should not be insulted, because no one can predict the future and the nature of emotions is ever-transient.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Okay.” Jim nods a few more times, pacing the room, every step charged with aggressive energy. Suddenly, he laughs, and it’s a brittle, ugly sound. “You’re basing this all on Pike, aren’t you? Oh my God. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. I really am such an idiot, Jesus.”

“Jim—”

“No, don’t bother. You asked him, and he said no, and you decided it was because he didn’t love you anymore. You never laid it all out, in fact, you tried to say as little as possible, but I’m right, aren’t I? Tell me that’s not exactly what happened, I dare you.”

Spock says nothing.

“Oh my God. Spock, that’s not why he did it, you goddamn oblivious idiot! For crying out loud, he’s _still_ in love with you! How do you not see it every time you two are in the same room?”

Spock is startled by the sudden contact between his shoulder blades and the wall. He didn’t realize he had physically recoiled. Jim is watching him with sharp, unyielding cruelty that misses nothing.

“That’s how it’s always going to be, isn’t it?” Jim asks, quiet. “I’ll always be jealous of the guy I kind of tend to worship?”

Spock forces himself to stand up straight, taking control. “You will still have the advantage,” he can’t help but point out. “At least, Chris is only one man.”

Jim huffs, but some of the tension bleeds out from the rigid line of his shoulders. “You _know_ I wasn’t in my right mind on Bealsa, and even with the influence of that goddamn machine, all it took was pretty much one look at you, and… Dammit, why are we talking about this? We’re better than this. You’re not that insecure, and I trust you implicitly. None of this should be an issue.”

“I was not the one who—”

“Yes, I’m sorry for bringing that up, but Spock, the way you reacted means your logic is compromised, don’t you see? I’m not him, and you were wrong about him in any case. You can’t keep using him as a template.”

“I am not. As I stated earlier, it is within your cultural norm to—”

“Okay, okay, fine. Let’s pretend you being an asshole about me not knowing my own mind doesn’t make me want to deck you. Let’s say I can be logical about it, or at least as logical as you are, which right now is, by the way, not at all. Let’s say you’re right. We complete this bond, and then, a couple of years from now,”—he rolls his eyes—“I’ll meet some… God, I don’t know, _someone_ , and I’ll want to leave you for them.” He stops and looks at Spock directly. “What’s to stop me?”

Spock blinks.

“No, really.” Jim resumes his pacing. “M’Benga said and Bones confirmed that this isn’t a marital bond. It can serve that function during your pon farr, if we wish to use it that way, but it’s not really binding, is it? Oh, I’ll definitely feel your need, but theoretically, assuming you pissed me off enough, I can just ignore it and be on my merry way. And the beauty of it is, the warrior bond doesn’t stop _you_ from bonding with someone else, either. Sure, I imagine it’d be rather like an unwanted three-way every time one of us does it with someone else, but I’m guessing we can learn to block it.”

“Not entirely—”

“Well then, I don’t mind, and you’ll have something to remember me by.”

Spock experiences an acute sensation of his insides being sliced into shreds.

“No.” Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe? “No. That—that I could not do.”

Softly, with merciless tenderness, Jim asks, “What happened to holding on to a part of me if you can’t have it all?”

Spock closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Jim is standing right in front of him, his face open and unguarded, his whole body trembling slightly.

“I couldn’t do that either, you stubborn bastard,” Jim breathes out shakily, arms sliding around Spock’s neck. “Spock. If I had a direct line to you making love to someone else, there wouldn’t be enough pieces left of me for souvenirs.”

“You are making my case for me,” Spock whispers, helpless not to pull him closer.

The kiss is hungry, desperate, the affinity between them swelling to bursting, thoughts and emotions bleeding through in a way that has become so familiar now, so natural and welcome. The very idea that they might lose this, will have to do without, is making them both hold on tighter, push rougher, almost scared to break apart.

Spock rests his forehead against Jim’s as they catch their breaths. He doesn’t know how to give this up, even if he must.

“The thing is,” Jim whispers, “I see you sometimes. Across a field full of bodies. Your face is different, but it’s you. I know it. You’re wearing a—cloak of some sort. It’s bright red, carmine. There’s a sigil on your chest, brunt in silver. Some angry animal, kind of cat-like. It’s glinting in the sun, and it’s so hot, I can barely breathe. My hands are heavy, and my clothes are soaked with blood. No one is with me. There’s a lirpa in your hands, and you’re standing there, alone, and… And then you look right at me. And I know you then.”

Spock shudders against him. His mind is ever-active, and there is so much he could say. That the animal is, no doubt, a le’matya. That Jim is describing an outfit of a captain of the House of Surak of at least a thousand years before Surak was born into it. That there is no way for Jim to know that. That, in all probability, they require another visit to Medbay, because Spock _remembers_ standing in that field after the battle, and he never had until this moment.

What comes out is: “You were wearing green.”

Jim goes utterly still and then he pulls back.

“Spock…” he says hoarsely, staring at him.

Spock’s head is spinning, and he can’t stop the flood of images. “You knelt before me; laid down your weapon. It was broken. Even the metal, cracked.”

Jim frames his face with trembling hands. “You knelt down beside me. You handed me yours.”

“You took it. And then you… you held it over my heart, and—”

“And then I kissed you.”

They both gasp as the emotion builds up, clinging to each other.

“Spock,” Jim whispers. “Spock, I think we’ve done this before. I think we’ve done this many times before.”

“This should not be possible. I have never heard…”

“Genetic memory—”

“—does not jump star systems. And I, for one, do not believe in fate.”

“Neither do I, but you can’t deny this, whatever this is. Not when you—remember, for lack of a better term, the same thing I do.” He leans in to kiss Spock, then pulls back just as abruptly, stumbling as if drunk as he steps back. “Sorry, I just—I can’t think like this.”

It’s almost painful, and yet Spock, too, is grateful for the distance. They need to regain some clarity.

Jim finally picks up his glass and downs it in one go. He’s flushed, eyes bright and not entirely sane. Spock suspects he doesn’t look much different.

“Right. So. Fate.” Jim tugs at the hem of his shirt, straightening it. “I don’t think that’s what it is. For one thing, we have a choice. This is… fascinating and all, and I’m sure I’ll have a proper freakout about it later… or maybe not, since I’ve been sensing something like this for a while. But my point is, we have a choice. We’re not actually—compelled—to do anything. We can walk away from this. Right now, even. It would suck something awful, but we could, if we wanted to.”

Spock clasps his hands behind his back, forces his mind to behave rationally.

Jim is correct. They could walk away from each other right now. Staying on the same ship would not be wise, and transferring perhaps too painful, but there are other alternatives. Depriving Starfleet of a captain of Jim’s caliber would be a travesty, but Spock could leave at any time. He could settle on the New Vulcan colony, or sign up for any of the deep space research missions outside of Starfleet, or even join the Diplomatic Corps. He and Jim would never have to meet again.

Jim winces, wrinkles his nose. “Not the Diplomatic Corps, surely. I don’t think they’d be very impressed with your resume just now. Shooting a senior aide during trade negotiations isn’t that commendable, you know.”

And the bond is not yet in place, Spock notes with a distant pang of hysteria. Jim is not reading his thoughts, not yet. He just—knows Spock. They have been like this for a while now, perhaps from the very beginning. Spock should have realized what that meant before the intervention.

“She was going to activate a bomb in the chamber, as you well know,” he says. “Besides, if there is any one organization within the Federation that relies even more heavily on nepotism than Starfleet, it is the Diplomatic Corps, and I have some not inconsiderable sway in the field.”

Jim snorts. “Like you’d ever ask Sarek for anything.”

Spock gives him a serious look. “I would, if that were the solution for our dilemma that we would have agreed upon.”

“It’s not, okay?” Jim crosses back over to him swiftly, grabs his wrist, squeezes. “Point proven. We have a choice. And I choose you, Spock. Forget your cultural norms statistics. They don’t apply. I _choose_ you. Ask me fifty years from now, or, apparently, about five thousand years ago or so, and I will still choose you. I don’t understand why I should sit and wait for what the future will bring, when I can damn well _choose_ my own future right now. Have you ever known me to be stuck in reaction when action was available?”

Spock smiles a little. “No.”

“No, that’s right. So let’s just do it now. Meld us and let’s complete the bond before having you this close and no closer drives me nuts.”

Spock holds his eyes for a long moment. Jim never wavers.

“Very well.”

Jim whines a little in relief as Spock leans in to kiss him.

\--

There’s a sense of tightly controlled urgency as they move into the sleeping alcove, tugging at each other’s clothes. It’s not the blind, frenzied desperation that takes hold of them after a mission that had nearly taken one of them, and not the languid, playful ease they indulge in when they are safe and secure. It’s a strange combination of both, and yet an entirely new creature that is them, all them.

“Should we not,” Jim asks in between of pushing down his pants and kissing down Spock’s chest, “engage in some sort of, I don’t know… ritualistic battle?”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, amused, not bothering to hide it. “I think there have been quite enough battles between us already, but if you insist.”

Jim laughs as he’s dropped onto the bed, the same way he usually goes down during their sparring matches when Spock catches him off guard.

“It’s all right, I like this angle better,” he says, watching avidly as Spock sheds the last of his clothes. “And I’ll never be tired of this part.”

Spock blushes, has to look away, even though he’s used to it by now, and to Jim teasing him for it.

Jim pulls him down, rolls him onto his back and kisses him, deep, drugging.

It all dissolves after that, singular awareness fading in a swell of mirrored sensations. Usually, Spock keeps a reluctant hand on the reins, maintaining a semblance of separation, a wall between them, however thin. Now, he lets it go. He falls into Jim without fear of being lost or disappearing. It’s as exhilarating as falling into the sun, and he does die at that moment, ceasing to exist as someone who always stands alone. He’s greeted by recognition, a similar sense of dissolved loneliness, and the brilliant joy of having found something one never knew he lost.

Words come to him then, their true meaning finally sinking in the way they never had before.

_Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched._

Spock surfaces briefly at that moment to the physical, to the awareness of Jim holding him down and riding him. He has just enough control to flip them over and hear Jim’s exclamation of intense pleasure, before it all dissolves again, and they are submerged by the flood of—images? Memories?

_Red sands of Vulcan. Green glades of Earth. A handful of landscapes neither of them recognize. Different battles. Different faces. Jim dying in his arms. Spock being dragged away, captured. Spock refusing to fight now that Jim is dead. Jim standing over his body roaring for vengeance. Jim singing over the battlement. Spock, surrounded by children. A crowded… tavern? Their eyes meeting across the room. Jim jumping to save him, both of them taken down by the same spear. Both of them, naked, a dark cavern, heat, the sound of water. Jim winking at him insolently from across the enemy lines. Spock on one knee before Jim, Jim lifting him up. Spock striking the chains from Jim’s body._

But even that is over in a flash, there and gone in an instant, until there’s nothing left except a blinding brightness and the sense of each other’s presence.

_I know you._

Jim, pure joy, incandescent with it.

_I know you._

Spock, grounding, blending water and flames.

It clicks into place without any effort and then dissolves as if it’s always been there, just waiting to be called forth.

\--

Spock wakes up still entwined with Jim, knowing instantly he wasn’t sleeping. Jim hums contentedly next to him, fingers drawing whimsical circles on Spock’s arm and shoulder.

“Still not freaking out?” he asks, his voice rough as if he’d been shouting.

“No,” Spock says. “You?”

“You should know,” Jim murmurs and kisses under his jaw. “I can feel you.”

Spock turns into him instinctively. “I can feel you, too. But then…”

“We’ve been here all along.” Jim grins. “Yeah, I know. All our arguments… Silly, in retrospect.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. “But enjoyable.”

“Oh, hell yes,” Jim laughs and rolls onto his side to kiss him properly.

Jim settles back eventually, both of them pleasantly exhausted.

“I don’t think,” Jim says, contemplative, “that we were really them. Except for that first one. That one is all ours. But the rest, hm. I think it’s more like… there’s a part of them in us. Or a part of us in them. Maybe it’s… some kind of energy we can’t detect yet that needs to come back every once in a while. For universal balance.”

“It is a beautiful theory. You cannot prove it, of course.”

“Yeah, but you can’t disprove it, either.”

Spock smiles and lifts himself up on his elbow to look at his… shield-mate?

“Is this what I have agreed to be subjected to? An eternity of circuitous logic?”

Jim grins, touches the corners of Spock’s smile. “Yep. You love it, don’t deny.”

Spock floods the bond with his emotional response, and Jim almost visibly _glows_ as it hits him. His mouth falls open helplessly.

“Oh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “You really do, you—”

Spock kisses him, and, tired or not, Jim surges up to meet him.

\--


End file.
